


It's Just Good Business

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Socks, brass knuckles are foreplay, didn't expect these two now did you, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 17:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16979214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: There’s a beautiful intricacy that plays off the Chinese architecture in here. Stacker Pentecost is not a man who gawks, not turned around by milling people, bone saws, lab technicians with volatile chemicals—they should get a look at the team he’s building in the Loccent Shatterdome. No, he focuses his efforts on the man he came to visit. This “Hannibal Chau” character he’s heard whispers about on the wind.-Or-Stacker needs to get kaiju samples to study and there's word on the street that Hannibal Chau is the guy to get it. And then the guy to "get it", if you catch my meaning.





	It's Just Good Business

The short man with dark sunglasses and a thick, sleezy accent draws his hands up to his pecs, sucking in a lungful. The words “male potency” shoot out of his mouth and it seems very much like this is his usual ramble. Stacker doesn’t sigh, but he cuts the man short as he turns over the flimsy card to show the back. The little sales pitch for kaiju bone powder dies on his lips.

“You work for Chau,” Stacker says. If they played a blacklight over the card, the intricate kaiju design would be upside down, but Stacker shows it off with the confidence of a man who will not take “no” for an answer, who will not walk away until he has what he needs.

“Oh,” the minion answers, and rubs his ring-heavy hand over a greasy pate of skin atop his head. “Ah. Yes.” He grins, too many brown teeth, too happy to oblige. “Yes, you’re the…this makes sense. Okay. You’ll forget that little quip about – ah, of course you will."

The man nods, tugs on a black silk lapel, and sniffles. He flicks his nose, making a quick, obvious gesture to the gentleman near the door, who locks it behind him. Nothing subtle. Stacker has to wonder how this infamous operating ring could hide from him so long, with goons like this on the outside. He wonders what their boss must be like. The tchotchkes, the “kaiju-natural remedies” in their little red tin boxes. The place reeks of cloves and garlic and ammonia.

“You want to meet him?” the man asks, stepping away from his assorted counter. He reaches blindly into a bookshelf, skating a hand over a brass dish with a little figurine of Trespasser done up in a dark resin cast. That smile. Those teeth. They don’t waver an inch as he extends a hand and in a low, smoky voice that’s just on the edge of cracking, mutters out, “Enjoy.”

There’s a click from a latch and the low, grumbly churn and the back wall predictably slides apart with the help of well-greased gears. Three layers peel back like clockwork. There’s another click as the front shop disappears, bolted away. The sound is hidden beneath the din of different units getting ready to take the back entrance out of the building—one of dozens, Stacker is almost certain—to collect and/or steal the latest shipments coming from the Category III they took down near Sydney. The very same Stacker was hoping to get a hold of for the PPDC. Legally, yes, he should be able to, but legality had been slipping and proper specimens were not making it down to his k-science division. The Council was less concerned about this than they were about the Wall of Life. About the kaiju fanatic cults. About gangs taking his samples fresh off their own boats. This competition needed to end.

Still. Looking around? Whoever this ring leader is? The man runs a tight ship.

There’s a beautiful intricacy that plays off the Chinese architecture in here. Stacker Pentecost is not a man who gawks, not turned around by milling people, bone saws, lab technicians with volatile chemicals—they should get a look at the team he’s building in the Loccent Shatterdome. No, he focuses his efforts on the man he came to visit. This “Hannibal Chau” character he’s heard whispers about on the wind.

“So, are you just perusing, or are you gonna make me a serious offer there, Pentecost?”

The voice.

Years slip back at the even rumble of that voice.

“Y—”

“Out!” A lull in the main room at their boss’s command. Someone’s bone saw churns to an uneven stop. So, again, he bellows, “I want everyone outta this goddamn room in the next ten seconds! One!”

It doesn’t make it to “two” before the room clears, the silence enough to hear a pin drop.

Stacker stood at the epicenter of the ostentatious parquet, his hands loosely in his pocket, gripping one piece of paper and ghosting over the grip of a pistol at his hip that he was certain should have been checked by that guard at the shop front door. His lip twitches, but he stands his ground, his eyes fixed on the broad back of the man in the red brocade silk suit.

“So,” Stacker starts, and the sound of his voice echoes around them. “You’re—”

Flat, broad hands are on his face and he has sense enough to close his lips before this specimen, this bastard, this formidable opponent crashes into him. He removes one hand from his pocket to catch a wrist before that ridiculous butterfly knife ends up near his throat, warm steel to match the warm skin competing with his own.

“Took you long enough,” Hannibal says, pulling back from their kiss first.

“How was I supposed to know?” Stacker answers, glaring into nearly opaque black glasses. “When did you change your name?”

“When I needed to get out of Moscow with my fucking throat intact.”

“You’ve been stealing my—”

“Ah-da-dah,” Hannibal says quickly, cupping Stacker’s jaw and brushing his thumb hard enough to irritate the skin behind his ear. “Pleasure before business.”

“You’re daft.”

“And you got a loaded pistol sticking into my gullet, so.” Hannibal tilts his head. There’s a pinch of his eyebrows, his rugged cheek, just enough that Stacker can guess that must have been a wink. “I told my guys not to molest you before you came in. But. Rules are rules and all and I haven’t made it this long letting another man keep his weapon while he’s close enough to waltz. Clothes off, baby doll.”

“Don’t. You don’t get to call—”

Hannibal is right back on him again, tugging Stacker into him to kiss him harder. There’s a wet swipe of his tongue, a peek, and Stacker is decades younger, leg cramping in a closet somewhere, their trousers pushed to their thighs, his head bumping up against a shelf of linens. There’s never any moments anymore where he just gets to be a man. Where he’s human. He’s a marshal now. Hell, he’s a _father_. Beyond that, he’s a bloody jaeger pilot and he’s holding up the jaeger program with his own damn shoulders, with his dying breath, if that’s what it comes down to. And that’s too true these days, isn’t it? Stacker closes his eyes, opens his mouth, willing away the pressure behind his eyes and a nosebleed threatening to spill out of him.

Another metallic whisper, a click and fold beside him as Hannibal plays with his butterfly knife. Stacker glances over and slaps it out of Hannibal’s hand before he grabs his suit and nearly lifts him, throwing them both towards one of the tables. Hannibal braces back with one foot, his hands digging into Stacker’s shoulders.

“Not on the table,” Hannibal hisses out. “You’ll knock over my merchandise and I won’t be in such a playful mood.”

“Where?” Stacker says, his voice as unwavering as ever, barked right back at him. He doesn’t flinch as Hannibal stabs his thumbs into Stacker’s shoulder, but a warning flashes across his eyes gives them both time to pause. “I presume you don’t _sleep_ here?”

“Presume away, baby,” Hannibal croons and bites his teeth together in Stacker’s face.

“Don’t _call_ me that.” Stacker shoves Hannibal again, not nearly as far as he’d like. “I’m not even calling you R—”

He’s shocked by the sting more than anything. The impact, yes, fine. It was telegraphed a mile away and he rocked back to avoid the worst of it, but brass knuckles always have an added sting when the metal cuts through skin. He’s overcorrected, reaching up to touch his jaw and check for broken teeth and he’s spinning back. A vulnerable moment where gravity is too much. Stacker is going to kick Hannibal’s ass for that cheap shot, he swears he will, soon as he finds his footing again. He’ll knock him from one wall to the next and after they’re good and bloody, he’ll ask if that’s the pair Stacker bought him back in ’07. But first? First, he has to contend that he’s about to fall on his ass, and he’s spitting up a broken curse when Hannibal grips his elbow like a vice and pulls them together again.

There _is_ a bedroom hidden behind another set of ridiculous sliding walls. This one is made to look like panels with kaiju organs preserved and blue lights highlighting through the glass. Stacker clicks his tongue as Hannibal does his best to distract him, ripping open his blue button down and humming at the circuitry scars mapping over his skin. He begins to kiss them, and Stacker does his best not to close his eyes so they don’t lose their footing on the way up to the enormous bed.

“You always did like bringing work home with you,” Stacker says absently. He runs his fingers through the shock of white hair, pulling at the roots and smiling as he musses up the heavy products.

“You live in a fucking Shatterdome right now, Stack. You don’t get to talk.”

“You’re talking plenty enough then, I take it?” Stacker drags his fingers across Hannibal’s scalp again, down the back to the nape of his neck, and underneath the neckline of his ridiculous suit jacket. “Does that mean we can skip this and head straight on to negotiations, hmm? You gonna talk, or are you gonna work?”

Hannibal rolls his eyes, more a wave of his head and an articulation in his eyebrows. He wouldn’t take off the sunglasses, even here, which is his right to do so. He sits back on the bed and pulls Stacker’s hips closer, grumbling something as he fusses with Stacker’s belt.

“Cut it out,” Stacker says, gripping Hannibal’s hair at the crown of his head.

“Hey, you think you can boss me around, fine. I mean, I never thought I’d actually get you to come in here, but need I remind you, I don’t take orders from you.” Hannibal forces his head up, flaring his nostrils just as he yanks Stacker’s trousers down towards his knees. “So, if you wanna play out some weird Marshal-Cadet kink, I gotta guy I can call in for that, but I’m not—”

“God, _shut up_ ,” Stacker answers, but he’s already here, isn’t he? Cupping Hannibal’s face? Looking down at him like he did years ago, with a hard-won, worn out, reserved fondness? Oh, and hatred, yes. Loads of it. Contempt. Malice. Intrigue. Hannibal, this new fellow that he’s become, it’s gaudy. It’s fierce. But he’s still in there.

Times have changed. Locations. Hell, _positions_. But he knows this man, and he’s damn lucky to get to see a familiar face during time of war that reminds Stacker of something long buried. Another trinket to keep fighting for.

That.

And he really needs to not have all his shipments stolen.

Stacker grits his teeth when Hannibal’s rough hand strokes him out of his boxers. He presses a line down his frenum, tilting his head just so.

“Well,” Hannibal says as he makes an assessment. Another rough tug, twisting his hand up and down with a light pressure that drags the dry skin. Stacker braces a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, fighting the urge to slap him. “No, I mean, I’m glad to see these suit scars didn’t mangle your junk. That would’ve been a crime against humanity.” Hannibal looks up and grins. “A bigger crime, I mean. Hell, maybe I would’ve signed up with the jaeger program to get my revenge if that had happened, huh?”

“You still have that ridiculous jewelry?”

“Prince Al is still kicking,” Hannibal answers, pinching one side of his mouth up higher. He makes that gesture again, that twitchy pinch that must be a wink. Stacker wants to take off those stupid sunglasses, but he keeps one hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, the other atop his head, in the event something goes wrong and he has to try and break Hannibal’s nose with his knee. But whatever thought Stacker has, Hannibal just seems… _happy_. He licks his lips and without further comment or ceremony, lowers himself down on Stacker’s prick, going for the whole kit in one long, wet pull.

It was so….

It was so bloody quiet. It feels like sneaking off in the dormitory again and even if Stacker may have _accidentally_ gasped, it’s more breathing than anything. He keeps his fist tight on Hannibal’s hair, not to guide him, but as insurance. Of course. Still ready to—

A low, soft hum and extra attentive twirl makes Stacker’s vision blink out for a second. He tips his head back just as blood splashes his top lip, coating through his mustache and he fumbles to get into his breast pocket for the little metal tin with his pills. Hannibal bobs a few more times, but the inquisitive sound trapped in his mouth—vibrating around Stacker’s cock—is distracting enough that Stacker has to push him off. He dabs at his nose with his thumb, pissed more than anything.

“The hell’re you doing?” Hannibal demands. He hooks Stacker’s hips before he gets too far away and turns him around. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yes. Astute observation,” Stacker answers.

“Jesus, hold on,” says Hannibal, sounding annoyed. They’re both good at this part. Annoyance, resolution, a stiff-upper-lip. Hannibal reaches into his own breast pocket and pulls out a square. It’s black, with his new initials embroidered in the corner. Stacker takes it and raises an eyebrow. “Hey. You either use that or you’re gonna get blood on the bedding, and blood is a bitch to get outta my Egyptian cotton. So. Take care of that.”

Stacker rolls his eyes and turns in the confines of Hannibal’s firm grip on his hips, cleaning himself up and popping one of his pills. He swallows it dry, sighing and looking down at the floor. His mind supplies _18 th century replica, I reckon_, and almost smiles before Hannibal reaches up and takes his pocket square back, tossing it somewhere to the left of them. He may have said something about the bedding, but it’s right there on the mattress, within reach.

“Lay down,” Hannibal says and Stacker does sigh then. “I’m not babying you, before you say it, I’m just…lay _down_. Fuck, I’m not twenty anymore and neither are you. And I didn’t get this big bed just ’cause I like to starfish by myself.”

“Yes, you did,” Stacker says, still resisting.

“Yeah, I did.” Hannibal laughs, raising his hands and scooting backwards towards the pillows. He waits a moment, crossing one leg over the other. He has on the most ridiculous shoes Stacker has ever seen. The gold plating over the toes is…it’s something. Hannibal taps them together when he catches Stacker staring. He flaps his hands back as an invitation. “Join me. C’mon. Just ‘cause you got a nose bleed doesn’t mean this has to end? I got you started. So.”

Hannibal tilts his head as he slowly drags down his own zipper.

“I’m not riding you,” Stacker insists.

“Eh. Maybe not this time.” He reaches into his slacks, keeping himself hidden but curling a finger around the head, playing with his jewelry. “Tell you what. It’s a treat just to see you again, so maybe I’ll—”

Stacker practically pounces, moving with surprising speed and agility up the mattress and straddles Hannibal’s hips, crushing their mouths together. He smiles when Hannibal groans, pushing away his face.

“You still taste like blood.”

“Never stopped you before.”

“Well. You’re crushing my wrist.”

“Baby,” Stacker spits and is turned over onto his back faster than he can blink. He almost laughs, but Hannibal’s on him again and opens his mouth willingly this time, eagerly even. That stupid white hair feels softer under his fingers the more he breaks down the gel, the more he grips and pulls at it. The sunglasses stay firmly locked into place, wire curled perfectly around his ears, but he doesn’t mind. He lifts his hips as Hannibal slides his boxers down and Stacker returns the favor, pushing Hannibal’s clothes to his knees. It’s like they don’t have time again. It’s like the world is ending and they have to go quickly, quickly. Ruined shirt means access to a sensitive nipple and golden shoes means clacking down below them and a hand gripping a firm, pasty ass so he doesn’t get too far away as Hannibal rolls over to pop open a drawer. Stacker’s first thought is _lube_ , but he laughs a little breathlessly and nods as Hannibal grabs a wad of condoms and rips one open with his teeth.

“I don’t even know where I’ve been,” Hannibal says, stroking Stacker again before he slides the condom down his shaft, quickly following suit. “Kidding. But you? You been gone twenty years. I don’t know what happens in a Shatterdome.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Yeah. I do.” Hannibal shrugs. “Still.”

“Easier to clean up,” Stacker says matter-of-factly, which, for whatever reason, earns him a quick chaste kiss.

Neither of them shucks their clothes completely. They hobble each other, with pants around their ankles, and Hannibal finally fetches a small bottle of lube, squeezing a healthy handful on Stacker’s fingers.

“Hurry it up, Stack,” Hannibal says, rolling back against the pillows and sneering when Stacker pulls off one of his loafers, then the other, ripping his red pants off the end of his feet. The black socks didn’t stop him from spreading Hannibal’s legs or propping one of his knees up onto his shoulders, so he left them on as he pushes two fingers greedily into Hannibal. Hannibal’s breath hitches, and it looks more like he’s wincing with pain than with anticipation.

“Too fast?” Stacker asks, pumping his fingers tentatively.

“No, not that,” Hannibal groans. He taps one of his stockinged feet against Stacker’s hip. “I fucked up my knee a year back. Just. Be careful, asshole.”

“Poor thing,” Stacker says, moving his face out of the way before Hannibal can try and sock him again. “You get me with your brass knuckles a second time, I’m walking out.”

“Figured you’d recognize them,” Hannibal says and flops his head back when Stacker starts to spread his fingers. “Fine. Fine, fine!” He reaches his hands above his head and blindly pulls the brass knuckles off, leaving them on the bedding beside them. It’s a big bed. Can hold them and all their little extras just as well.

Stacker watches Hannibal, head tipped back so his blocky chin juts out, revealing a vulnerable spot on his neck. He skips it a moment, admiring the body changed by time and dressed in red. At Hannibal’s neatly trimmed pubes and that silver hoop he remembered back when Hannibal got it and showed it off in that stupid linen closet, the very first chance he got to try it out. He had wondered why Hannibal had been walking weird for a few weeks, but the surprise was worth the wait. Stacker reaches down now and traces Hannibal’s cock, which jumps at his touch, even if the man beneath him doesn’t make a noise.

“Can’t believe you still shave all this. How do you find the time when you’re not ripping me off?” Stacker asks, moving his fingers down to scratch his fingernails through Hannibal’s dark blonde body hair.

“How can you stand not to?”

“Most of it got burned off,” Stacker says with a little shrug, finally leaning down to nip at that stripe of skin he had been eyeballing on Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal hums and captures the back of Stacker’s head, rubbing his fingers across the military-neat hairline. “Think I might even be thinning up top.”

“You’re fine,” Hannibal says, his voice quiet and he shifts again as Stacker easily slips a third finger into him. He always gets this easy, pliant look about him when he’s spread out like this. Stacker wonders if anyone else gets to see him in this light. He bites a little harder at the spot on his neck and finally smiles when he gets Hannibal to hiss and buck up with his hips. “Jesus!”

“Thought you were gonna fall asleep on me,” Stacker says. He hasn’t felt this playful in years. The smile, the laugh. It settles on him like an old coat.

“Would you shut up and fuck me? God, talk talk talk talk _talk talk t—_ ”

Stacker laughs, yanking his fingers out and easing Hannibal’s leg down when he’s silenced with a throaty moan. He should kiss him again, but he’s trying to flip the man over and Hannibal does not make anything easy.

“No, man. You fuck me where I can see you,” he says, framing Stacker’s face.

“I thought your knee hurt.”

“Yeah?” Hannibal grunts, but he puts his leg back up on Stacker’s shoulder, tugging him closer. “And I thought your face just lost two pints of blood, so.”

“You’re so bloody stubborn.”

“You love it.”

He might not concede that, but he does use slick fingers and strokes himself a few times before he lines himself up. Just teasing the head against Hannibal makes him tilt his head back again and Stacker thinks he catches a sight of his eyes there under the black frames. Eye, to be more accurate. Closed in the beginning stages of pleasure. Stacker doesn’t blush, he’s a man in better control of his faculties, but he does feel a warmth go down his spine and sinks into Hannibal with a smooth, easy thrust.

That does get a proper gasp out of Hannibal. He lets his mouth hang open, soft and easy as Stacker braces his hands next to Hannibal’s shoulders. The pillows, all six of them, are piled up high around his head, curtaining them off as Stacker angles down and snaps his hips hard. They both swipe their tongues over their lips and bite down, nearly in unison. Stacker snorts and earns what he thinks is a glare.

“That all you got?” Hannibal asks, digging his heel into the small of Stacker’s back. “You need me to show you how it’s done?”

“You wish,” Stacker answers. He pulls his own legs up and hefts Hannibal’s hips, bracing both legs onto his shoulders. He sinks back in and Hannibal finally cries out when he manages to find that perfect sweet spot. “There he is. C’mon, you used to sing. You got it in you?”

“F-Fuck. Fuck you, Stack!”

“Other way around,” Stacker says, driving in, nearly pulling out and pounding back with a brutal tempo.

Hannibal’s fists go straight for the pillows, trying to find purchase there. The disappear into downy fluff and Hannibal’s biting his lips until there are white indents. He’s gone nearly as red as his suit on every flash of skin Stacker can see, so he keeps going. He wonders if Hannibal can come from this alone.

“Fff…touch me!”

Stacker laughs, tossing his head back. That answers that, it seems. But he grips Hannibal’s thighs instead, spreading him open so he could stab deeper, earning another little shout.

“I am touching you.”

“Don’t! Don’t…fucking…play cute!”

Hannibal shoves his head back and the glasses finally skim off the tip of his nose. He grabs them and chucks them towards the side table, missing of course, but too busy to care. The thread of scar tissue over his eye is garish, but he has a soft, open glint that can’t be ignored and Stacker slides Hannibal’s legs down so he can curl towards him and kiss him. He even shoves his hand between them, fisting Hannibal, struggling to match pace with his hips. It’s awkward and jerky but he finds it and sighs into Hannibal’s mouth when he feels the other man spasm under his hands, tightening around his cock. Neither of them shout. It seems perfect, reminiscent even, and the obscene sound of skin slapping skin spurns Stacker over the edge after him.

Hannibal digs his heels in again to keep Stacker in place. He decides to relax on top of him instead. It takes longer than both of them like for their breathing to even out.

“I’ll have to go.”

“You think I don’t got shit to do?” Hannibal asks. His eyes are still closed, and there’s teeth indents beneath the bottom of his lip. Uneven red marks that Stacker brushes with his thumb until Hannibal moves his face away. “When do you think you’ll come by again?”

“Will you keep stealing from my shipments?”

Hannibal laughs, nodding even.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m gonna definitely be—”

“No.”

Hannibal peeks with his good eye. He rolls his hip and the two men hiss, still oversensitive yet. He relaxes back again, his feet slipping down to the mattress, but Stacker stays in place all the same.

“Fine,” Hannibal finally says. “Not your boats. But if my guys get to the sites first—”

“If,” Stacker repeats and finally rests his head down on that broad chest for a moment. “I can work with ‘if.’”

The two settle in. There’s so little time to find the quiet and the calm in the world. They may only have minutes to enjoy it, especially when one of Hannibal’s drones pings his phone. Stacker’s is on silent, but he imagines there must be someone asking after him too.

“Duty calls,” Hannibal says, pushing at Stacker’s hip. He pulls out with a little groan. All that moving and now his back’s sore. Hannibal laughs, rolls over to reach for his glasses and spots them on the floor. “Get those for me, baby?”

“Still no,” Stacker says, but he grabs them off the floor just as Hannibal finds a bottle of pain relievers and pops two onto his tongue. He shakes them in Stacker’s direction, but he declines. Stacker’s already tied off his condom and looks around for a bin to ditch it in. There, under the table. At least he has aim enough to get it in on the first try. He almost wipes his hands off on the sheets, but Hannibal is watching, so he buttons up his shirt. He sits on the edge of the bed while Hannibal stretches out, scratching at his calf with his opposite foot. He tucks his hands behind his head and grins up towards the ceiling. Stacker eyes him. “I thought you said ‘duty calls.’”

“And you wanted me to stop taking from your ship. My boys won’t move until I say so. I’m giving you a head start.”

Stacker pulls his pants back up, fixing his belt, and stands with his hands on his hips. He didn’t accept the pills but he accepts the little black pocket square again and cleans off his fingers while Hannibal relaxes back.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Hannibal grumbles. The smile is faltering. He’s scrubbing one of his eyebrows, not a nervous tick, but an annoyed one.

“Show me out.”

Hannibal finally sits back up, propping himself on an elbow. His lopsided smile comes back and tightens on one side. “I’m supposed to just give you a secret entrance?”

“You want me to knock on the front door again? Your sales guy is….”

“I got that little toad in the art trade,” Hannibal says with a laugh. “If you can believe it. Guy had three Caravaggio’s. Hey. You remember him? I bet you could still recite your thesis for me, couldn’t you. Y—”

It’s a goodbye kiss, yes, but a ‘thank you’ and a ‘fuck you’ get rolled up in there as well. Stacker tugs his coat back on and doesn’t break stride as he walks towards the door. Hannibal, for what it’s worth, does the right thing. He pushes whatever fancy little switch he has and the walls open up, letting Stacker leave unmolested. No secret doors, no side entrances, no easy return, but still. Maybe that’s the best he can ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> Have I implied that Hannibal and Stacker know each other? Have I implied Hannibal's actual name is Ron? And that Stacker was an Art History Major at some point? Look into your heart. You will know these things to be true.
> 
> Well, I hope you enjoyed this because it was, uhhhhh, hilariously fun to write.


End file.
